The Q-View

(This is sixth in a series reflecting on how life changed in a way that was–and still is five years later–unfathomable to me.)

On Tuesday night, I fell asleep at about 10:30. My phone jangled me awake about an hour later. It was Jefferson. A nurse told me that Terry had taken a turn for the worse and that I had to get to the hospital.

“Are you telling me she is dying?”

“Yes.”

I asked that the hospital get a priest there for the Last Rites.

I rushed to get dressed, petted a bewildered Rio, and headed out five minutes after I had taken the call, my mind in overdrive. I called our eldest son, Michael, who lived in Manayunk, to let him know I was heading to Jefferson in case he wanted to join me. The call went to voicemail. He didn’t get back to me until Wednesday morning. There was no point calling my sons in Colorado and Long Island. 

On the drive, I was praying when I was not fighting back fear, praying that I would get there quickly, praying that the priest would get there in time, praying that a miracle would take place.

Thankfully, traffic was light, and I was parked in Jefferson’s garage less than an hour after I left East Greenville. I took the enclosed bridge into the hospital. A security guard called ICU to verify I could enter.

Terry was lying still on the bed, her eyes half-opened and unmoving, the brown washed out. I said hello and grabbed her hand, but I could tell she wasn’t really there. A glance at the monitor showed her BP was 44/30. I didn’t know a blood pressure could go that low. She was breathing normally. The urine bag was still empty. 

I know that hearing is the last sense to fade away, so I talked to Terry. I told her I loved her; I prayed aloud; I told her she could get better; I told her not to leave.

Shortly after I arrived, the priest from a nearby parish entered the room and began the Last Rites. I prayed along at the appropriate places, listened to the general absolution, and thanked the priest for getting up in the middle of the night.

Of all the bad things that happened, getting Terry Last Rites was the best thing. I was confident I had helped her get her journey to the afterlife off to the best start possible.

I was out of things to say after the priest left. I sat beside the bed and held Terry’s hand. The nurses had closed the door and left me alone.

“How long?” I had asked.

“Soon.”

By about 2:30 a.m., she took her last breath and the monitors flatlined. I looked above her body, believing and hoping that Terry would know that I was with her as her soul’s journey began. I hoped that she could sense my love.

The second-best thing about this nightmare was that I was with Terry. She did not die alone.

After I closed her eyes, I stayed with her for a time and said the first of many “final” goodbyes before pulling the sheet up over her face and opening the door. The nurses came in, and a doctor officially declared her. 

Terry’s possessions were gathered and placed in a bag. I was given a condolence kit: some seeds to plant, a sympathy message, and a couple of other items. ICU was obviously used to this kind of scenario.

I was in shock. It was so unreal. 

I thanked everyone for their help, took a last look through Terry’s doorway–her body was still on the bed–and retraced my steps to the parking garage.

I prayed all the way home. Rio had sacked out on the couch in the family room and we went upstairs to bed. He hopped into his doggie bed near Terry’s and my closets. I sat on my bed and experienced the icy grip of grief.

I was alone. 

After 14,886 days together, on the morning of August 19, 2020, death had parted us permanently.